


Still Like Muffled Drums

by teprometo



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Con Artists, Consensual Infidelity, Dom/sub, F/M, Light Bondage, Possessive Behavior, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:52:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2470559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teprometo/pseuds/teprometo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isolde’s body is familiar to him, like a favourite book. Every time he turns a page, he fears it may be the last, that the paper will disintegrate into pulp under his fingers, that the threads in the binding will fray and the pages will fall into hopeless disarray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Like Muffled Drums

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [rub me the right way](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2143017) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery). 



> Please give all your love to growlery, who wrote the fic that made this one possible. <3
> 
>  _Art is long, and time is fleeting,_  
>  _And our hearts, though stout and brave,_  
>  _Still like muffled drums are beating_  
>  _Funeral marches to the grave._  
>  \- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A Psalm of Life

He zeroes in on the bruises, little purple crescent moons against the pale stretch of skin over her hips. Isolde’s body is familiar to him, like a favourite book. Every time he turns a page, he fears it may be the last, that the paper will disintegrate into pulp under his fingers, that the threads in the binding will fray and the pages will fall into hopeless disarray.

Sometimes Tristan just looks at her—loves her even more when she’s got her big, square glasses on, wrapped in the ugly greying dressing gown she nicked from a hotel years ago. Tonight, though, he needs his hands on her, to reassert that he can touch her, that she _wants_ him to. She knows he gets like this after she fucks someone else, desperate and possessive, and more than a little reverent.

Isolde isn’t a woman who gets backed into a corner—she always has an escape route—which is why it’s so intoxicating when she lets him tie her up, wrists secured and legs held open, pinned beneath his weight. Tristan kisses her back, her arse, down to the hidden warmth of her cunt.

In the morning, there will be no trace of this time they spend fortifying their relationship against the fractures of jealousy and greed. They’ll be on to the next city, the next scheme. She’ll dye her hair pink and trade her heels for combat boots, her pencil skirt and briefcase for ripped-up denims and a shoulder bag. He’ll let his beard grow in, wear a V-neck and skinny jeans, and they will be made new.

But for now, Tristan slips his thumb past Isolde’s panties into her slick, hot hole. She keens and rocks back against him, begs for his cock because she knows he likes it when she begs. It’s an unspoken thing, the way she gives him this—him and no one else. She doesn’t submit to any of their marks, and not even to her girlfriends, scattered about the world but each one very dear to her all the same. Isolde saves this one thing for him, and tonight it keeps him grounded.

She’s loud. Her voice echoes through their hotel room as the bed frame cracks into the wall, and Tristan slams into her harder, gets every inch of his cock clutched inside, his groin snug against her arse as he presses in, smears wetness over her clit until she comes with a shout from deep in her throat.

He’ll come down that throat later, after she begs him to _please let her suck his cock, please come in her mouth, pleasepleaseplease, because she’s his good little whore and she’ll do as she’s told_.

And it’s all so funny to him, when he’s not balls-deep in her, how he can assert control here whilst being utterly terrified that he will lose this. That someday she will tire of him and he will be left with the bitter knowledge that he’d never have gotten his fill of her, that all the time in the world would never be enough to sate his incessant longing for her.

Isolde’s blissed-out smile is perfection. The two of them are soaked with sweat, but Tristan keeps his arms wrapped around her tight, their legs intertwined, bodies touching everywhere. She knows how adored she is, how much Tristan admires and appreciates her. She laughs intermittently, her face tucked tight against his chest.

Tristan cherishes these moments because he knows they cannot last forever.


End file.
